


the consequence of being human

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, more char/relationship tags to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-22 16:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14312328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: “There was a poison in him, he knew, but it was not the scourge of the beast. As the hunters said, the scourge traveled up the right leg. His own sickness was rooted in his heart.”Pre-canon Alfred study, from Church hunter to Executioner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is initially set almost 20 years before the game. alfred is in his late teens. please mind the graphic descriptions of gore. category will eventually go from gen to m/m.
> 
> i cant promise regular updates but i will do my best. @_@

The beast’s head snapped to the side beneath the force of Alfred’s swing with a sharp _crunch_ , but to his surprise the beast didn’t drop – just staggered, recovered, and snarled in his direction. He jumped back just in time to avoid a swing of its claws, fumbling with his kirkhammer. He favored the hammer form, unwieldy as it was, but the streets of Yharnam were too narrow to get a good swing in, and he was sharing them with half a dozen other hunters besides. The others were all around him, busy with their own prey, little more than black silhouettes and flashing steel in the darkness of the night.

Except for Ludwig, dressed in white, mowing down beasts with his greatsword. Alfred could see him further down the street, fighting like a man possessed. Ludwig, the Holy Blade himself.

No. He had to focus. The beast before him would be his first kill, and Alfred fully intended to prove he had the skill and ferocity to match any veteran hunter.

This time when the beast lunged forward Alfred met it mid-leap, his kirkhammer connecting solidly with its side and sending it sprawling to the ground. Before the beast could recover, Alfred brought the hammer down on its head with as much force as he could muster. The impact nearly made his arms go numb but he held on to the kirkhammer gamely, pulling it back to rest on his shoulder as he prepared to dodge another attack. But this time the beast stayed down, its head a featureless mass of splintered bone and bloody flesh.

And just like that, it was over. The street went quiet as the other hunters finished off their own beasts. One of them – Tomasz? Elias? it was impossible to make out faces – clapped him on the back and congratulated him on his first kill.

“Look at that beastie,” Tomasz-or-Elias murmured, tilting his head towards Alfred’s prey. “Still dressed like a man, even had his hat. Must’ve turned recently, eh? Poor bastard.”

“Poor bastard,” Alfred echoed faintly. He couldn’t look away from the body. This should have been a triumphant moment, a step across the threshold to a new life – and he did feel joy, was almost giddy with it, but there was another feeling running beneath that he couldn’t quite pin down.

The beast’s head was split open and spilling viscous matter. Something about it made Alfred think of the round dark squash the Church served in autumn, sliced open to expose a soft, sweet orange center—and with startling clarity he imagined himself scooping out the inside of the beast’s skull with his fingers, lifting that bloody squishy mass to his lips. Maybe the texture would even be similar, melting and wet. The urge gripped him like a vise. The smell of the beast’s blood was sweet like squash – no, no, it was sickly sweet like rot, like overripe fruit burst open in the midday sun. The scent was thick in the air, cloying, gathering in the back of his throat and on his tongue. He struggled to breathe. 

A hand on his shoulder brought Alfred back to himself. He jerked and raised his kirkhammer on reflex, stopping when he came face to face with another hunter. Not one he knew, and not a church hunter either by his attire; he had on a cocked hat with a feather in it, and some sort of mask that covered his lower face.

“You alright there, lad?” Most of the hunter’s expression was concealed by the mask, but Alfred could see a worried set to his grey eyes.

“Fine,” Alfred managed. How long had he been staring at the corpse? He relaxed his grip on his kirkhammer, abruptly aware of how tightly he was holding it. “I’m fine, thank you, just… a little tired.”

The hunter grunted and stepped away. He was dressed in worn yellow cloth and when he turned his head, Alfred caught sight of dark skin and close-cropped curls. The street was silent, and with a start, Alfred realized that they were alone – Ludwig and the rest of the Church hunters must have continued onwards, heedless of their youngest member. Alfred felt his face heat. Which would be worse? To be reprimanded for falling behind, or to return and find nobody had missed him…?

“The hunt’s no place to drift off,” the other hunter said. “Come with me. You’d best return to your friends.”

And with that, the yellow-garbed hunter was off, striding through the street without even looking to see if Alfred followed. Alfred broke into an undignified little trot to catch up, transforming his weapon back into its less cumbersome sword form as he went.

“I’m Alfred,” he said brightly, already feeling rather more like himself. Now that his – little fit – had passed, Alfred’s customary curiosity made a reappearance. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before…?”

“Henryk.”

“Henryk,” he repeated. “You’re not a church hunter, are you, Henryk?”

He was vaguely aware that there were hunters unaffiliated with the church, in the way that one is aware of the ground beneath one’s feet, but he’d never met one before. He’d heard rumor of a workshop that predated the Church, and that there were still hunters in Yharnam who claimed allegiance to it, but the other acolytes had little knowledge of history and even less interest. Still, it would make sense. The weapon this hunter carried was unlike anything he’d ever seen; an enormous cleaver with a serrated edge that was currently decorated with blood and bits of matted fur that spoke to its efficacy.

But Henryk only gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you always so chatty during the hunt?”

“Ah—” Alfred faltered. “This is my first hunt.”

That made Henryk stop and give him a long, searching look. Alfred felt his face heat again under the scrutiny, and he began to wish the church hunter garb included a mask like Henryk’s. What was the other hunter thinking? That he was young and foolish, perhaps. Weak. Helpless. Annoyance prickled across his skin but he held his tongue; after all, Henryk was offering his aid freely, and Alfred was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. After a moment, Henryk grunted and began to walk again.

“Take my advice, lad: keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Unsuspecting prey is the best kind there is. You’d do well to remember that.”

Alfred found himself at a loss for words, so he did just as Henryk suggested and kept his mouth shut.

The older hunter moved purposefully and silently, seeming to know exactly where to go. Then again, he might have simply been following the trail of carnage. They passed by no small number of dead beasts as they went, some of them cleaved in two – Ludwig’s work, no doubt. The man’s strength and skill were awe-inspiring. Alfred made a point not to look too closely though, wary of having another – episode – but he refused to shy away from the bodies. It wouldn’t do to seem _squeamish_.

They were just beasts, after all. He was a hunter. He could handle beasts.

What he didn’t realize was that not all the beasts were dead.

One of the wolf-like beasts roared to life the moment Alfred stepped near its head. He must have jumped about a foot in the air from surprise, which was fortunate because it saved his foot from being crushed in the thing’s jaws. Alfred transformed his weapon quickly, acutely aware of all the other beasts lying around him. How many were dead, and how many merely injured?

As the beast dragged itself up Alfred saw it had a deep gash along its side, and one of its back legs was mangled beyond repair. Easy prey, then. He watched it wind up to lunge at him and tensed, prepared to sidestep the attack—

When Henryk appeared behind the beast and staggered it with a perfunctory shot before dropping his weapon and simply plunging his hand into the beast’s ribcage, ripping out its still-beating heart.

Alfred stared, gripping his kirkhammer hard, white-knuckled and shaking slightly with adrenaline. That feeling came again, slithering through his ribcage like an alive thing. He wanted to reach in to the carcass like Henryk had. He wanted to eat that bloody tainted organ right out of Henryk’s hand.

“Let’s move,” Henryk said tersely, picking up his weapon again. “That gunshot will have attracted more beasts.”

“Henryk—” Alfred paused, biting his lip. “What was that you just did? With – with your hand.”

“A visceral attack?” The older hunter turned towards Alfred. “That’s…” 

He trailed off. A beat passed. Alfred felt his hackles raise.

“Alfred,” Henryk said slowly, and Alfred could see something in his stance shifting, his grip on that serrated cleaver growing tight. “Are you feeling alright?”

The hunter approached Alfred, whose heart began to race. He cast about frantically for something reassuring to say.

“Whatever you’re thinking – it’s not the blood. I just… need a moment.”

But Henryk did not stop. He came up to Alfred carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal. He set his cleaver down a few feet from the younger man, keeping his pistol at the ready, and closed the distance.

Alfred could smell the beast blood on him. All over the gloved hand that had just been holding a beating heart. He should say something, warn Henryk (about what, he wasn’t sure), but it took all his effort just to control his breathing as that bloodied glove came up and gripped his face. Henryk turned his head this way and that, grey eyes sharply fixed on his own. The texture of the glove, slick and rough against his jaw, and the rotting stench of beast blood overtook Alfred’s senses.

Then he was released, and Henryk turned back to collect his weapon without a word. Alfred lifted a hand to his face in a daze, wondering what the hell that had been about.

They went the rest of the way in silence, and when they found the rest of the church hunters, Henryk made a swift exit before any of them caught sight of him.

* * *

At the time, becoming a full-fledged church hunter was a matter of some ceremony.

Not everyone could handle the blood, or the terrors of the hunt, and the good blood was not so plentiful that it could be wasted on a fool like to die on their first outing. But those that proved themselves on the night of the hunt would be inducted into the ranks, just as Alfred was now, still covered in the blood of the beast he’d killed.

The hunting party had barely made it into the cathedral before Ludwig had announced, with his usual grave expression, that a new hunter would be joining their ranks. All eyes had turned on Alfred immediately. Most of the pack was still riled up from the excitement of the hunt, and Alfred was all but carried up the steps amidst a flurry of congratulations and hearty slaps on the back.

The Holy Blade cut an imposing figure before the altar, looking almost angelic framed by golden candlelight and flanked by statues with their arms raised in supplication – if not for the fact that his white clothes and holy shawl were marred by splotches of dark beast blood. Yharnam was full of such juxtapositions. The filthy and the divine went hand in hand.

“Alfred, ward of the Church.” Ludwig’s voice rang through the enormous hall. He drew his sword – not _the_ sword, but a long thin silver blade that he used in normal circumstances. The other hunters backed off, finding various places to sit and stand as they watched. “You have proven worthy of being a hunter of the Church, before myself and your peers, and have indicated willingness to accept this honor. Do you swear now, by all that you hold sacred and true, to serve the Church faithfully, and cleanse the streets of beasts?”

Ludwig’s eyes were fixed on him with singular focus, piercing him as surely as a blade. Alfred’s heart beat in his throat.

“I swear.”

Ludwig pointed to the ground before him with the sword. “Kneel.”

Alfred knelt.

“Then, having sworn this oath…” (The flat of the sword touched Alfred’s right shoulder, close enough to his neck that he thought he felt a whisper of cold steel. He restrained a shudder.) “…I do induct thee into the ranks of the Church hunters.” (Now on the other shoulder. A tap, there and gone again.) “Stand as a hunter.”

The peanut gallery let forth a smattering of applause as Alfred stood. He thought he caught the hint of a smile on Ludwig’s serious features.

“I present you with your badge. Take it.” Ludwig dropped it into Alfred’s hands. The badge was silver and vaguely cross-shaped, ornately decorated, with a loop at the top that said it was clearly meant to be worn as a pendant. Alfred ran his thumb over its face, marveling; he was a hunter at last, and here in his hands was physical evidence, cast in solid steel. How long had he watched hunters go about their business in the church, eyeing them with envy as they went out to hunt? Since before he’d been able to hold a sword, surely.

Ludwig put a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, lowering his voice to a conversational tone. “Beast hunting is a sacred practice. But more than that, it is our duty to keep the people of this city safe. Remember that, young hunter, as you venture out to hunt.”

“I will, sir.”

“Very good. Now stay here for a while, there’s something I wanted to discuss.” Ludwig turned toward the rest of the hunters, raising his voice again. “Good work tonight, hunters! You’re dismissed. I’ll see you for training on the morrow.”

The older hunters poured out of the cathedral in a cacophony of voices, talking to each other of the hunt, of the new hunter. No doubt they would be sound asleep within the hour though. The hunt had been long. 

Now that the excitement was over, Alfred found himself yearning for his bed as well; swinging around a kirkhammer was exhausting work and he felt it to the bone. But Ludwig was still there, eyeing Alfred with an indecipherable expression. Alfred was already standing quite upright, but under the weight of that gaze he endeavored to stand a little straighter.

“I’ll keep this brief. You look ready to fall asleep on your feet.” Ludwig smiled, not unkindly, but Alfred could not keep an embarrassed flush from rising to his face. “I thought I saw someone slip away just as you rejoined us. Was there another hunter with you?”

“Yes. He said his name was Henryk. He wouldn’t say much, but… he didn’t seem like a church hunter.”

Ludwig seemed to relax at that. Odd. “Ah, Henryk. You are correct: he is a hunter of the old workshop, and shows no interest in joining us. Still, he is quite the skilled hunter. You could learn much from him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Sir.”

There was a long silence. Ludwig seemed lost in thought, and Alfred lingered as he tried to come up with words for a question that he wasn’t sure even merited asking. Had Ludwig been expecting another hunter? What could be so concerning about a hunter? Or perhaps Alfred had mistaken his expression entirely. The Holy Blade was stoic, with long, severe features; it would be easy to see tension where none existed.

“Well,” said Ludwig, cutting off Alfred’s train of thought, “I shan’t keep you from your rest. You’ve certainly earned it. Come to training with the rest of the hunters tomorrow morning and we will outfit you properly. Yes?”

“Of course,” Alfred said quietly, mind still turning. “Thank you, sir.”

Alfred returned to his quarters in the Cathedral Ward, a simple room in a building owned by the Church. He’d lived there, with other wards of the church – nuns, clerics, doctors, an eclectic lot – ever since he’d been able to take care of himself. Perhaps he would be moved now that he was a hunter, he mused. The mystery of Ludwig’s worry followed him like a cloud of smoke as he dragged himself through a brief shower and finally into his bed, where he let exhaustion overtake him at last.

He dreamt of blood, and a faceless hunter with claws for hands that tore open his chest and pulled out his still-beating heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skipping a few years ahead! alfred is in his early twenties now. i am truly flying by the seat of my pants here with no editor or much of an outline
> 
> you can expect the next chapter to take a bit because finals season is coming up for me :/

_Regrettably, I must refuse your offer. It is true that children make the best subjects. They are naïve, untouched by blood, free of man’s beastly desires… on the most part. It is these very qualities that make it possible to elevate their minds from this dirt, and cast their eyes skyward, into the cosmos. Lacking these qualities, however, we would far prefer to use adult volunteers. They are less frail, less easy to panic. And the children demoralize our staff._

_Surely you understand._

_— I._

 

Alfred had been blonde and blue-eyed when he arrived at the Church, still young enough that the nuns cooed over his fat cheeks and fair curls, calling him cherubic. Far from the only infant dumped on the Church’s front steps but certainly the most charming of them all, he was doted on for the first few years. During that time he bounced around from home to home; the nuns were often busy aiding in blood ministration and, on occasion, the hunt, which led to Alfred being communally raised rather than fostered by any one household. By the time he could speak half the nuns in the Church were his aunties.

But then Laurence turned.

Alfred only saw the aftermath. At the time, he’d been a toddler barely able to walk – but if anything, the one thread that connected every stage of his life has been his insatiable curiosity. Little Alfred, drawn towards the noise and commotion, had peered around a corner and seen a massive beast with white fur that stuck up in tufts like feathers, its skull cracked open and the life leaking out of it. And by the dead thing, a lean man with a spiked mace that pet the blood-matted fur and spoke to its lightless eyes like an old friend.

In the aftermath, the halls of the cathedral grew quiet and Alfred was left to his own devices. He was allowed to wander about freely. His eyes turned green, no longer that clear angelic blue. One nun taught him to read, almost distractedly, often ending lessons abruptly to rush out into the city. Those lessons proved to be a boon; the church was filled with books, and while the nuns muttered about beasts and vicars and faith, Alfred read. The books on medicine he found particularly interesting, especially the pictures.

Alfred no longer remembers, but he’s told they found him in the courtyard driving needles through a rat’s paws, pinning it to a wooden cutting board like dissection specimen.

He was assigned a more dedicated caretaker after that. And when he grew old enough to hold a sword, he was quietly picked out by the hunters in black and taught to kill.

* * *

“Seek the old blood. Let us pray, let us wish to partake in communion.”

The words rolled off his tongue without need for thought, now. It was an old ritual for Alfred, well-worn like a worry-stone kept in his pocket. He moved about his small room with his eyes half-lidded, setting a simple metal chalice on the nightstand by his bed and uncorking his ration of blood.

“Let us partake in communion and feast upon the old blood.” The thick red liquid went into the chalice without a sound. He knelt before it, cradling the cup in his palms. “Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the old blood, but beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young.”

He put the chalice to his lips and drank. The blood was thick and lukewarm, bittersweet with a coppery bite. Down below in the city proper, blood was mixed with black cherry and plum to take the edge off, and served iced or cut with spirits to thin it. The common folk got drunk on watered-down blood and fermented fruits, reducing a holy medium to nothing more than a form of entertainment. It sickened him. Communion, on the other hand, was a sacred practice, and demanded the consumption of pure blood.

Having drained the cup, Alfred placed the chalice back on the nightstand and clasped his hands to complete the prayer.

“The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.”

It had been years since Alfred’s first hunt, but he had yet to confess his moment of weakness while gazing at the beast’s cracked skull, let alone everything that came after. He dreamt of priests at their confessionals reaching their gnarled hands through the screen to claw at him, to peel his skin back and reveal his rotten insides. There was a poison in him, he knew, but it was not the scourge of the beast. As the hunters said, the scourge traveled up the right leg. His own sickness was rooted in his heart. It made him want unspeakable things, made him afraid to look himself in the eye. He wore layers even during the height of summer because seeing the pale skin of his stomach made him want to plunge his sword in – not out of desire for death, but for some kind of relentless fascination.

He spoke of these desires to no one. Held them close to his chest. On the nights of the hunt he let the beastly things stretch their legs a bit, goad him into being messy with his killing. And still Ludwig commended him on his fervor and skill in hunting beasts. It was like he was getting away with doing something terrible, if only he could figure out what.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He rose slowly, licking his lips to wipe away any lingering blood.

“A moment please,” he called, grabbing his kirkhammer from where he’d propped it up against the wall and fitting it into the harness on his back. The hunt would be on tonight, and he was already dressed for the part, wrapped up in the standard dark leather and cloth of the Church hunters. The badge Ludwig had given him was tucked beneath his shirt, resting securely against his breast. He gave himself a once-over in the narrow mirror attached to his closet, making sure he had everything he needed; there would be no going back inside for supplies once the hunt had begun. Absently, he noted that the holy shawl that hung loosely from his shoulders, once white, was stained a reddish color despite being worn from repeated washings. He needed to get it bleached soon.

He opened the door to find it was not a Church hunter sent to fetch him for the hunt, but spindly Aunt Marjorie in her white nightcap and gown, wearing her customary sour expression.

“Alfred!” she declared, drawing herself up to her full five feet and change. “You took so long to answer the door, my fingers have just about frozen off. You’re off to hunt tonight, are you?”

“Yes, Aunt Marjorie,” Alfred said mildly. Aunt Marjorie loved to complain, but she had a soft spot for him and couldn’t hold a grudge, two facts he had learned to take full advantage of over the years. Still. She had known him since he was a round-faced infant, and made sure to remind him every few weeks with gleeful comments on his lingering baby fat. He glanced past her into the empty hallway. He really hoped another hunter didn’t walk in right now.

“One of Ludwig’s boys came by with a letter for you.” She produced an envelope and pressed it into his hands. “You’re not in trouble now, are you boy?”

“Not as far as I know, Aunt Marjorie.” He tore the envelope open and squinted at the paper inside. It was hard to make out anything in the fading light. “It looks like my assignment – I thought my hunting partner would come fetch me.”

“Maybe they’re busy.” She paused, glancing behind her, and continued in an undertone. “I heard one of the clerics shows signs of the scourge.”

A thrill ran through Alfred, equal parts excitement and dread. He’d never gone up against a cleric beast before. And then, on its heels, indignation; if there was a potential cleric beast loose, surely he should have been told? Kept on standby, to help deal with the crisis?

He didn’t realize he was scowling until Aunt Marjorie’s voice shook him from his thoughts.

“We’ll keep the incense lit until morning as usual, so don’t worry about us. But if there’s a cleric beast out there, Alfred, you better be careful.” She put a hand on his shoulder (which was about all she could reach). “Come back safe now, you hear?”

Alfred’s expression softened immediately. “Of course, Auntie.”

He stood in the doorway for a few minutes after she left, trying to shake an odd feeling of déjà vu. Apropos of nothing, he thought of feathers. (A cleric beast! To think, one of those stern old priests, or maybe a sharp-eyed doctor, hid such danger just beneath their skin. How would he deal with a cleric beast? Perhaps smash its skull in?)

Then the moment passed, and he went back into his room, lit a lamp, and read his letter.

* * *

By the time Alfred made it to his assigned patrol the hunt was in full swing, every door and window shut tight against the beasts and the hunters alike. The bloated full moon presided over the whole thing like an enormous eye, its silvery light casting the streets of Yharnam into sharp relief.

Alfred was alone that night. The veteran hunters had been dispatched to the Upper Cathedral Ward to take care of a cleric beast, but Ludwig had deemed such a prey too dangerous for the younger hunters and sent him to Central Yharnam. The pickings were slim. A few newly-turned beast-men, a handful of wolf-beasts, one brick troll that rounded a corner and nearly took his head off with a swing of its fist (he was still coming down from the adrenaline rush of that one) – but on the most part, the streets were quiet. He was beginning to understand how the hunters’ hounds felt, sitting at their masters’ feet waiting for scraps to fall from the table.

Alfred found Henryk by his labored breathing, which he nearly mistook for a beast’s. He ran into the older hunter every few hunts, but despite his best efforts at conversation, the other man never said much. This time the yellow-garbed hunter was slumped in a corner, one of his gloves clenched between his teeth, and his bare right hand probing at a wound in his leg. In the moonlight, the blood covering Henryk looked almost black. Henryk’s left hand snapped up and leveled a pistol at Alfred the moment Alfred stepped towards him.

“Henryk. It’s just me.”

Henryk spat out his glove, eyeing him. “Alfred. Still got your wits about you, then.”

Alfred took a few steps towards the other hunter, although he noticed Henryk hadn’t put down his gun. “Do you require blood? I have some vials to spare.”

Henryk shook his head. “I have blood. The problem is the bullet. The blood can fix much, but… leaving things inside is asking for infection.”

Alfred looked down at Henryk’s hand. Now that he was closer, he could see the hunter had been digging inside his own wound. The sight made him light-headed for more reasons than one.

“Do you… need help?”

Grey eyes narrowed at him suspiciously, but Henryk lowered his gun, which Alfred took as acquiescence. He knelt by the injured hunter’s side, propping his kirkhammer against the wall within easy reach.

“The bullet… it’s not very deep.” Henryk’s voice was thin. “But the angle… makes it hard to reach.”

A small pool of blood had already collected beneath Henryk. Privately, Alfred thought it would be more sensible to let the healing blood seal the bullet in, and worry about its removal later. Suffering the effects of blood loss during a hunt was beyond dangerous, whereas infection could be dealt with after the night was over. It was a moot point, though. Henryk was clearly going to remove the thing whether Alfred helped him or not.

Alfred pulled his gloves off and hesitated. The puckered wound was clearly visible from this close, and despite the poor lighting he could see a little ways inside it to where Henryk was red and raw. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, drawing blood. 

“Tell me what to do.”

“Dig the bullet out… it doesn’t exactly require… finesse.” The corners of Henryk’s eyes creased in what might have been a smile. Or maybe a grimace. “The blood will repair any damage you do.”

A flash of heat went through Alfred. He wondered how far Henryk would let him go. He wondered if he should tie his own wrists together and throw himself off a cliff.

Alfred steeled himself and pushed his thumb and index finger into the wound, trying to ignore the way Henryk’s breath hitched and stuttered with each movement. It had to be agonizing; Alfred was stretching the injury further open with his blind fumbling. But Henryk wasn’t saying anything, so he just – kept going. The heat of Henryk’s body was distracting, almost scalding somehow; Alfred thought he could feel the man’s heartbeat pulsing in the wound, but surely that was impossible. The notion was alluring in a way he couldn’t explain. Alfred beat back those thoughts as he groped further into the wound, trying to focus. It seemed like an eternity before his fingers touched something solid and decidedly un-meat-like.

He glanced at Henryk’s face. The other hunter had stuffed his glove back between his teeth at some point and Alfred could see how hard he was biting down from the tension in his jaw, raised tendons outlined by sharp shadows. His dark skin was ashen and his forehead glistened with sweat. Henryk was silent, eyes shut tight, breathing hard, but Alfred didn’t need to be told to hurry up.

The bullet came out with a veritable fountain of blood. The sudden heady rush of that smell – human and old blood mixed in with the night air – froze Alfred in place for a moment, but Henryk hardly seemed to notice, far too busy jabbing blood vials into his leg. The older hunter then promptly turned away and puked his guts out.

Alfred wiped his hand on his clothes hastily, fighting the unsettling urge to taste the blood that coated his fingers. More so than the beasts were the odd moods that would strike him unawares during the hunt. Nobody ever seemed to notice – except for Henryk, on that first night – but Alfred always felt acutely exposed, as if a brand had been placed upon his forehead.

(Perhaps this was the reason why Ludwig did not permit him to join the veteran hunters on their hunt.

Surely not.)

Henryk struggled to his feet and stood, swaying slightly. Remembering himself, Alfred pulled his gloves back on and retrieved his kirkhammer; surely if _he_ could smell the blood this strongly, the beasts would be drawn to it as well. The other hunter seemed to have come to the same conclusion, bending over to pick up his discarded saw cleaver and pistol.

“I should get back to the hunt.” Alfred eyed Henryk, who had laced up his mask again and was looking back with an unreadable expression. It felt wrong to leave the other hunter to fend for himself just after he’d been bleeding out on the ground a few moments ago, but he also wasn’t sure whether his presence was welcome. Henryk had an air of severity that made him think the older hunter preferred to work alone. “…I would welcome your assistance, if you wish to give it.”

Instead of answering, Henryk said, “Have you seen any other hunters?”

“Er—no. As far as I’m aware, all the other Church hunters are in the Upper Cathedral Ward.” Alfred studied Henryk. The older hunter was tense, even moreso now that he’d heard Alfred’s answer. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Henryk said grimly. “He’s the one who shot me. At first I took him for a blood-drunk, but he didn’t move like one. He was using a weapon I haven’t seen before, some kind of curved sword. Cunning bastard. Took me quite a while to shake him.”

What could a hunter possibly gain from turning on his own? They were all united in combating the beast threat, after all, and what purpose was more noble than keeping the people of Yharnam safe? (Certainly, some of the ordinary folk mistrusted hunters – they had worked in secret, under the cover of night, for quite some time in the past, it was only natural – but amongst the hunters themselves, there was hardly ever friction. Fighting side by side against the beasts did wonders for inspiring cooperation.) Alfred found it hard to believe that Henryk was telling the whole truth. There had to be more to the story.

Alfred chose his words carefully. “You didn’t… do anything… to anger him, did you?”

“I’ve never seen the man before,” Henryk said flatly.

“Perhaps he really was blood-drunk, then. I can’t think of any reason hunters should hunt each other.”

Henryk gave him an odd look. For some reason, it made Alfred bristle. “Perhaps.”

A sharp _crack _rang out, shattering the stillness of the night. Alfred flinched reflexively before he even registered it as a gunshot; Henryk, faster on his feet or perhaps just having better-honed instincts, drew his own pistol and pointed it at the sound. Alfred hastily lifted his kirkhammer, heart pounding. Was this the hunter Henryk had encountered? A second shot sounded, more muffled this time, and Alfred realized that whoever it was wasn’t shooting at _them._ But then who?__

__“This way,” Henryk hissed, and then he was off in a flash of yellow. Alfred followed blindly. The older hunter was fast, almost too fast (the kirkhammer was heavy!) but Alfred managed to keep up as they rushed through the streets. A third shot rang out, and then a fourth, and Henryk abruptly turned, taking them out of the narrow alleyways and into a round open plaza. Alfred was panting by the time Henryk skidded to a halt._ _

__In the plaza were three hunters. Alfred recognized Ludwig immediately by his white garb and the glowing sword in his hand that could only be the fabled Holy Moonlight Sword, capital letters and all. There was a feral look about him, tangled locks of hair flying loose from his customary ponytail, long and normally stoic face twisted in a snarl. At his side was a hunter dressed in garb Alfred did not recognize. Their face was covered by an eerie beaked mask, and they had on a long cape of black feathers. Blood dripped from the twin daggers in their hands._ _

__On the ground was the third hunter, unmoving, dressed in unremarkable black clothes. Ludwig’s blade was thrust straight through his ribcage._ _

__The masked hunter turned to look at them. Alfred felt more than saw Henryk stiffen beside him._ _

__“That,” Henryk said in an undertone, “is the hunter of hunters.”_ _

__Hunter of hunters? Alfred had never heard of such a thing. But before he could ask Henryk to elaborate, the masked hunter said something to Ludwig and the Holy Blade himself turned to greet them._ _

__“Alfred! And Henryk as well, I see.” Ludwig wrenched his blade out of the body, which didn’t so much as twitch. Well and truly dead, then. “I’m glad you two are safe.”_ _

__“That man attacked me earlier,” Henryk said bluntly, gesturing to the corpse. “Did you know of him?”_ _

__The masked hunter spoke up. “Yes. He was my mark.”_ _

__Their voice, though muffled by the mask, was unmistakably feminine, and bore a foreign accent. Alfred regarded her curiously. How was it that he had never seen her before? With such odd clothes, unique weapons, and an accent, it was impossible that he had forgotten her._ _

__“You kill hunters, then?” Alfred asked quietly._ _

__The black eyeholes of the mask regarded him unflinchingly. “When I must.”_ _

__“It is the hunter of hunter’s job to eliminate hunters who have gone mad, in order to keep the populace safe.” Ludwig’s gaze was on Alfred. “Much like it is a beast hunter’s job to kill beasts. We all do our part.”_ _

__Henryk crossed his arms. “ _Had_ he gone mad?”_ _

__“Yes,” Ludwig said._ _

__It was then that Alfred discovered Ludwig was a terrible liar._ _

__Ludwig stepped forward, placing a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Enough of this grim talk. You did well tonight, Alfred.”_ _

___Did well at what?_ Alfred wondered, but aloud he said, “Thank you, sir.”_ _

__“You as well, Henryk. The madman was a formidable foe; that you fought him and escaped unscathed speaks much of your skill.” Ludwig offered Henryk a small smile, which only seemed to make the other hunter uncomfortable. “There is always a place for you in the Church hunters, should you wish to join forces with us.”_ _

__“I’ll keep that in mind.”_ _

__Ludwig addressed Alfred again. “The beast in the Upper Cathedral Ward has been taken care of. The rest of the hunters will arrive shortly to do one last round of Central Yharnam before we end the hunt – though I doubt we will find much, since you have been through already. Walk with me – Henryk, you as well, if you like – we will meet them at the bridge.”_ _

__Alfred gestured at the beak-masked hunter, who had been silently watching the entire exchange. “What about her?”_ _

__“I will attend to the body,” the hunter of hunters said. “As is my duty.”_ _

__And so Alfred ended up following Ludwig out of the plaza alone. Henryk slipped away with a muttered apology, as was his custom, and the hunter of hunters stayed crouched by the body like a carrion crow over its next meal, watching them go. Alfred chanced a look behind him as he left and caught those dark eye-holes staring relentlessly back._ _


End file.
